hold on to your heart
by takingoffmyshoes
Summary: The shivering soldier prays to the sea. (Written in response to a prompt that requested an exploration of how the shivering soldier might have fared after the events of the film. Please be aware that this story contains depictions of mental illness, PTSD, and suicide.)


_and the air was full of various storms and saints_

 _praying in the streets as the banks begin to break_

The water is all that's left of the world, of him. Vast, boundless, powerful, eternal. It's all he sees, all he knows – it's in his blood now, and his heart beats in time to the waves lapping at the rusting metal beneath him.

The land is churned to ruin and mud under marching feet, but the water swallows ships and men and aeroplanes without a trace, her surface undisturbed by the grief she holds within.

She takes every damage, keeps every secret, and drowns man and monster alike without guilt or regret, and her beauty is the darkness and the promise of her depths.

Is it any wonder then, that huddled on the hull of an overturned wreck, abandoned by the god he'd yelled to until his throat was raw, he begins to pray to the sea?

* * *

 _but you took your toll on me_

 _so I gave myself over willingly_

When the boat comes for him, it's not rescue. It's not salvation. It's not any of that, because in the hours of waiting and thirsting and hoping, _hope_ that clawed at his chest, furious and violent and angry, he'd realised that there's only one way for this to end.

This is a delay.

But stranded in the midst of a new god, screams and shouts still ringing in his ears, he's only too willing to take the offered rope.

 _I don't know how I don't just stand outside and scream_

The boy is dead.

The boy he'd pushed, the one who'd sprawled on the ground at the base of the ladder with blood in his hair and

the one who was too young

too young, too soft, too—

But weren't they all too soft? Were any of them really ready for this, truly prepared, truly strong enough? So many had died, so many good men, good boys, too young to fight or too old, eyes too empty or too full of horrors and how, how had he held on so long? How had he told them to wait in the water, to trust – to _trust_ – that they would be rescued when he knew, he _knew_ that they would be—

Why, _why_ did he fight it? Why did he harden his heart, his mind, his soul against it? Why didn't he let himself be broken, snapped in half with the force of the terror's he'd seen, and let the horror escape him in long, drawn-out screams and single well-placed shot?

Why _did_ he—

Why _didn't_ he—

He's breaking now, tremors tearing him apart and guilt rising in his throat to choke him, and each breath is excruciating and his skin is crawling with terrible awareness that he _cannot bear to be in this body for another moment_ but there's no way out of it.

He's sitting on wet, soft wood and the same is pressing against his back, damp soaking into his trousers and through his blanket and he's so, so cold and he can't stop shaking.

From all around comes the sound of water, and longing joins the pain.

Soon, he promises desperately. Soon.

* * *

 _I know it seems like forever, I know it seems like an age, but one day this will be over – I swear it's not so far away_

The man – the father of the boy who survived Dunkirk, who survived him – lets him stay with them. He had another son, once, one who didn't survive the war, so there's an extra room in the house.

The ceiling slopes down to the dormer windows that stare, unblinking, into the vast grey expanse of the sea.

He sits on the bed, a quilt hand-made for someone else clutched around his shoulders, and watches, and waits.

The man, Dawson, brings food up to him but otherwise leaves him alone, doesn't shout at him for opening the window or curse him for being a coward. He just brings in trays with tea and soup and sandwiches and sets them on the bare wooden table next to the door. "Try to eat something," he says. "It doesn't do to waste food, you know."

But today when he comes in, he sits on the bed next to him, not touching, but close. "It'll get better," he says after long minutes. "You'll learn to live with it, and you'll find yourself again."

He doesn't say anything in return, and eventually Dawson leaves.

Outside, the ocean taunts him, entices him, whispers to him; even now, he can feel the motion of the waves under and around him. He's been on land for weeks and still the water rocks him to sleep.

* * *

 _If you could just forgive yourself—_

It's cold. It's always cold, the wind coming off the channel, but today it bites and scours, leaves his skin raw as he lets his coat fall from his shoulders and steps out of his boots. He leaves them above the tide line – they're gifts, after all, not his to keep – and picks his way down towards the water in his stockinged feet.

The water is steely today, and cuts like it when he wades in.

It pulls him in, a step at a time, rising higher and higher around his legs and then his waist and then his chest.

He looks up at the sky, so bright even through the clouds. He takes a breath, eyes still fixed on the light, and falls.

And the water, the water finally takes him in and makes him her own.

* * *

 _I wrote this back in December as part of a "short story celebration" that marked the third birthday of takingoffmyshoes fanfic. As a thank-you to everyone who'd supported me and encouraged me, I spent two weeks taking writing requests on tumblr, and then posted the finished stories first to tumblr, and then to my AO3 account in February. I initially wasn't going to post them here, but then I thought why not? You guys have been just as kind and encouraging here, and I'll make sure to open up requests on this site as well when December rolls around again._

 _I normally avoid song-fics, but I figure that if an exception were ever to be made, it should be for Florence + The Machine, and "Various Storms and Saints" is particularly heart-wrenching._

 _As always, thank you for reading! Any feedback you'd like to leave is welcomed and appreciated._


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